Moore found the ballads of Green Isle
Were oft obscured beneath the soil,
As miner digging in a mine
Finds rubbish ’mong the gold so fine,
So Moore placed dross in the waste basket
And enshrined jewels in casket,
Where all may view each charming gem
In Ireland’s grand old diadem.
In eastern lands his fame prevails
In wondrous oriental tales,
So full of gems his Lala Rookh,
Hindus and Brahmins read his book,
And dark eyed Persian girls admire
The beauty of his magic lyre,
Glowing like pearls of great price
Those distant gleams of paradise.
He sang of Bryan Borohm’s glory,
Renowned in ancient Irish story,
And shows the wide expanded walls
Which once encircled Tara’s Halls,
When joyous harp did there resound
And Ireland’s greatest king was crowned,
All wars and tumults then did cease,
Ireland did prosper great in peace.
He sung of meeting of the waters
And of Ireland’s charming daughters,
Great minstrel from his harp both flows,
Ireland’s triumphs and her woes,
Canada doth his fame prolong
While she doth sing his great boat song,
And his own countrymen adore
The genial, witty, bright Tom Moore.
While referring to past glories of Ireland, perhaps we might refer to that great Irish Historian, the late Honourable T. D. McKee, of whom we have written a poem in the earlier portion of this work, and we will give you an anecdote of him while here, showing his ready wit while he was rising from the supper table around which was a number of guests assembled, all eyes being naturally turned on him as the great centre of attraction, but the chair, being new, stuck to him; he instantly exclaimed, I wish the Montreal people were as anxious to retain me in my seat as you are in Ingersoll. He being a member for Montreal, wrote a fine poem on the St. Lawrence, where in Cartier describes to the King, on his return to Europe, the great river.
“He told them of a river whose mighty torrent gave
A freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean’s briney wave.”
Goldsmith wrote of deserted village,
Now again reduced to tillage,
Once happiest village of the plain,
The place you look for it in vain,
There but one man he doth make rich,
“I’ll fare the land to many ills a prey
Where wealth accumulates but men decay.”
While hundreds struggle in the ditch,
His honest vicar of Wakefield,
Forever he will pleasure yield.